


Back Against the Wall

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Based off the scene Kripke f-ing cut from s2e4, F/M, Hide the children, Mayhem, PWP, Public hand sex, Riles, These two and their friggin' sparks, which we now have on tv line!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles and Rachel do what they do best: have insane chemistry and get their rocks off. In a public alley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back Against the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> What better way to celebrate a Friday?

Rachel imagines she can feel the electrons jump from atom to atom – the static charge crackling audibly.

Miles yanks her into an alley and thrusts her bodily against the wall. And maybe it’s not the most feminist thing in the world – maybe it’s especially messed up given that he spent a year trying to force her to talk, spittle whipping off those sultry lips ferociously, cruelly – but she wants this, craves it. When you’re fuel being consumed by fire, you can’t think. Oh Jesus, now his knee parts her thighs, colliding with her swollen vulva. His lips begin to consume her.

Miles has lost control of his body. _This must be thinking with your dick_ , which is all that ever seems to happen when he’s alone with Rachel. He’s never understood her power over him – has long since given up trying. He could only avoid her, and now that he can’t do that anymore, he’ll see what happens when she wins. His brain tries to sort out the various actions his body parts are performing – lips shoving into hers, tongue fucking the inside of her mouth, and – _Christ_ – forcing his thigh into the hot V of her legs. She rambunctiously dry humps his leg in return, and he can’t tell if she’s just sweaty, or if her juices are seeping all the goddamn way through her jeans _and his_. Either way, his skin’s damp there, and he’s losing his fucking mind imagining her being that turned on. _By him._ He’s actually shaking as he tries to stroke her hair, failing to be gentle, breaking from the inside, and slamming his good hand too hard into the brick behind her head.

If Rachel’s dad saw them now – _God_ – she’d die of embarrassment. Because her brain has decided she’s absolutely not going to stop dry-fucking Miles’ leg until she comes, uncomfortable as it is. She’s cartoonishly engorged and dripping beneath her pants, and her panties have migrated into a powerful wedgy, forcing the hard seam of jeans piercingly into her folds. She pries open her eyes as Miles pulls his face out of their kiss, gasping, and his tongue – _always with the fucking tongue_ – just between his parted lips. She’s at least as breathless. The pause in their ravaging means she can drag him back further into the shadows where it’s safer.

Once they’ve reached the alley’s terminus, Miles crowds her back against the wall and moans a little when she willingly parts her legs for him, begging for the return of his soaked thigh. He offers his leg but also slides open the button of her pants and unzips them halfway, shoving his grubby fingers directly onto her clit – which he finds like he’s magnetized to it – and begins rubbing deep circles, watching the sensations flit across her eyes.

Rachel tries to focus enough to give him something back, wants to get him off too; she can feel his enormous boner, clanging against her hip like a lead pipe. She tries to rub him off with some portion of her lower body but can’t quite get the right angle, so instead, she shoves the heel of her hand into his cock, working it through button and zipper. He groans softly, probably as much from pain as pleasure, but he’s not stopping her. Hell, they both just nearly died at the hands of psychopathic warlords. They need this. Fuck anyone who wants to take this from them.

Miles’ zipper feels like it might lacerate his dick before it gets him off – so why the hell doesn't he stop her? He’s so desperate to finish he feels like if this costs him his life, he’ll just go the fuck through with it. He digs his fingers even harder into the supple nub of Rachel and registers the warning signs that she’s about to lose it – head tossed back, mouth lolled opening, eyes squeezed, and it occurs to him – this is going to be fucking _loud_. He shoves his hand more into than on top of her open mouth just as she quakes in unreserved ecstasy. That gorgeous goddamn mouth – warm, wet – makes him yearn to be inside of her. And here’s a fucked up bit: The last time he covered her mouth this way had been to stop her from screaming for help to rescue her. _From him._  

Rachel brushes off Miles’ hand, having regained some of her composure (though her legs wobble under her weight). Her entire reproductive system has turned to jelly. She’s about to rub her palm on Miles’ crotch again when he winces before she even gets there, and hell, she’s not here to cause him any more agony – not after what he’s just been through. She unbuttons and unzips his pants, as he glances nervously over his shoulder, panting, wanting, but, you know, reasonably concerned they’ll get caught with his dick out. 

“I’ll look out for you. Don’t worry,” she assures, pulling him closer and resting her chin on his shoulder.

Trusting, he buries his face in her neck, the stubble of his days-old beard just beginning to soften enough to tickle her. She draws out his familiar penis – the weight of it, it’s perfect ridges, the vein just here – God’s she’s missed it and wants to look, but keeps her promise to watch for trespassers. When she starts jerking him, he feels remarkably slick – drenched in sweat. She thinks she hears him whimper, he wants it so bad. It’s just not normal, how they get this way for each other.

It dawns on her that it’s going to be a problem when he comes – ejaculate is a byproduct of the male orgasm, and it’s just not easy to hide. Men are inconvenient. A flash of brilliance, and she starts pulling off his light jacket with her free hand. He helps her now without question, allowing her to bunch it up and hold it over the work she’s doing.

Then, much more dramatic – it’s the biology of male muscle spasms – his whole body convulses in on itself, and she feels him force his open mouth onto her neck to silence his involuntary moan. For a moment, she’s practically supporting his entire weight and staggers under it, but he quickly realizes the problem and plants his feet, whispering, “Sorry.”

The word sounds incredibly sorrowful contrasted with his orgasm, as if he’s apologizing for _everything_ – for getting captured by Titus Andover, precipitating her botched rescue of him; for holding her hostage all those years ago; for the affair during her marriage to Ben. He’s sorry for the Blackout, for the Monroe Militia, for letting Bass go feral, and for going to Iraq when he should have stayed home to be with her. Maybe she’s reading _far_ too much into it, or maybe it’s true. But when he leans his forehead to just rest against hers, his chocolate eyes penetrating into her, she’s certain at least of this: He loves her. He always has.

And it’s ok to let him.

 


End file.
